


The Bitterest Joke

by DracoMaleficium



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Behind the Scenes, Character Study, Epistolary, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mentions of Major Character Deaths, Mentions of Violence, Mother Panic Gotham AD, Oneshot, Relationship Study, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 14:44:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17184950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoMaleficium/pseuds/DracoMaleficium
Summary: Set during the "Mother Panic Gotham AD" comic.Joker doesn't handle grief very well.





	The Bitterest Joke

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who don't know the "Mother Panic" comics, this story is set in a distant Gotham future where Batman went missing and is presumed dead by most of the principal cast. But presumed isn't confirmed, and this is where Joker's confusion comes in. In fact, reading "Mother Panic Gotham A.D.," I couldn't stop thinking about [this poem by Wisława Szymborska](https://genius.com/Wislawa-szymborska-cat-in-an-empty-apartment-annotated) \- Joker in the comic reads to me exactly like the cat in the poem. Hopefully some of it came across in the fic. 
> 
> The warnings mostly allude to that - Batman's disappearance - and Joker's own attitude to his life's purpose, or lack thereof. Also to how Joker ends up in the comic proper, so, you know. It's grim. 
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy it anyway.

Hello, darling. Sit down.

We need to talk.

(Or are you sitting down already? Lying down? Well, for all I know, you might be. It's hard to tell, what with you _not being here_.) 

(Yes, that was me being passive aggressive at you. It's a new thing I'm trying out, and don't you dare judge me. I tried being just plain aggressive. Clearly it didn't work, and I'm getting a little desperate here.

But I'm getting ahead of myself, aren't I.)

You see, darling, at the end of the day... There's things that just aren't done.

Don't you scoff, now. I can hear you trying, in that knee-wobbling syrupy voice. I can see that barely there twitch of a smirk to your dreamy heroic mouth that you hope I won't notice, even though you know I always do.

 _Really, Joker? You, talking about limits?_ (You wouldn't roll your eyes, though. You hardly ever do when I'm around anymore, because you know I'll strike if you take your eyes off me for even a second.)

(If that's not love, I don't know what is.)

Anyway, none of that, please, my love. Let's not be facetious tonight. And yes, I do realize the irony in that statement, too, for are we not facetious by our very existence, being the way that we are? Yes, yes. Very clever.

You know what I mean.

The thing is, darling, the thing, in point of fact, is...

It's bad form.

There, I said it. You heard me. I think it's time you heard some harsh truths, my love, because clearly you’re in need of them. So let us face the music, shall we, let us smell the squirt flower, let us come clean, in a word, and throw the purple gauntlet, and tell it like it is.

It's bad form, my dear, you leaving me alone like that.

I mean, I thought we had a good thing going. It was all laid out for us nice and clear. We've even talked about it, and more than once, too!

(Yes, yes, all right, I talked _at_ you while you did your noble best to knock out my teeth. Tomato tomahto. You never actually contradicted me, my sneaky little minx, and I know that you know that I noticed.)

The point _is_ , we had a deal, and you don’t get to renege on a deal like that without even

Look, it's quite simple. Just a matter of logic, really, and of — of — mathematics! You _like_ mathematics, darling, I know you do. You're a positive maniac for the stuff. So I really don't see how a man with your genius scientific mind could fail to grasp such a simple, obvious equation.

Gotham = a bat

There.

And, indeed, the reverse is true as well! Let me demonstrate.

(For your information, I just put on my Groucho glasses. I thought I'd let you know since you can't see me, what with you not being here.)

(I feel like I should have brought a blackboard too, and a pointer, but it would be a trick and a half dragging it all over to the pier. So we'll just have to make do with simple chalk and use these here wooden planks. Below my standards, I know, but it's your fault, isn't it? Had you been here, it'd have motivated me to make more of an effort. So there.)

Anyway, the reverse. Look. Are you looking? Good. Pay attention, now.

A bat = Gotham

Still with me? Then let's take it one step further.

You take one element of this equation away...

Here, let me write it out for you. You may need the visual aid, since you don't seem to be getting it.

Gotham - a bat = ???

See? It doesn't make sense. Take that one element away, and what happens?

Chaos, darling.

And not of the good kind.

I know you won't call me a hypocrite for saying that, because you understand. You know there's some things even I wouldn't do, and some forms of chaos that aren't just bad - they're _wrong_. But in this case I think I'll let the numbers speak for themselves. Obviously you need to take it in, yes? Sleep on it? Okay. I've waited this long, I can wait another night. Clearly you needed the holiday, and I suppose that's fine.

But I'll be back tomorrow, all right? I hope by that time you'll have come to your senses.

And why wouldn't you? Like I said, it's a matter of math. The numbers don't lie.

So.

Toodle-oo.

*

Maybe I wasn't clear enough last night.

Remember how I said that if you take out just one element of our equation — oh dear, here, let me write it up again, the rain must have washed it off — There. Nice and crisp and legible again. So.

Last night, I said that if we take one element out, it's chaos. I've since come to realize that's not entirely accurate.

??? isn't chaos, is it? Chaos is something else entirely. Chaos is — it's something like — 

— I seem to be running out of chalk. Anyway, dear, you get the idea.

So, what _does_ ??? stand for in our equation, I hear you ask?

(Well, not really. 'Cause you're not here. And if you were, you wouldn't be asking, because we wouldn't be having this conversation to begin with, and I wouldn't be here, all on my lonesome, freezing my jollies off on this pier.)

(And before you say it, no, I'm not as far gone as to hallucinate that you _are_ here. Devil knows I'm no stranger to hallucinations but believe me, darling, when it comes to you? I can always tell the difference.

And why wouldn't I, when you're the only one apart from me who is real?)

(They've been getting worse ever since you left, by the by. The voices, the headaches, the hallucinations. The works, the frills, the whole coockoo shebang. Thought you should know.)

Anyhoo, the answer, my intrepid batty hero, is simple.

It's nothing.

Confused? I hope not, you _are_ the World's Greatest Detective for a reason. But then if you weren't confused you'd _be here_ , so let me put it another way, just to be safe.

Remember No Man's Land?

Silly question. I know you do. You remember everything, don't you, and far better than I do, especially when it's something of this magnitude. Even _I_ remember No Man's Land, which is quite something, isn't it, considering Arkham's delicate ministrations and the fact that my memory wasn't all that hunky dory to begin with.

No Man's Land — now that was chaos.

Still not _good_ chaos, mind you. Not exactly what I'd call top-shelf. More of a discount, clearance rack kind of chaos. Drab, grubby and mundane, the sort you get when drab, grubby, mundane folk are involved. I'm sure I don't need to remind you all the sordid goings-on before I chose to grace the scene with my fabulous presence - you saw it, you fought it, you pouted all through it, and carried it all on your muscular shoulders the way you carry everything else.

(Carried? Used to carry? Do you even know how to stop? I hope you don't. If you did, that

it wouldn't be funny.)

(Not that any of this is, anymore.)

The point is, lacking in style and poetry though it was, No Man’s Land was _a_ chaos, but it was still very much Gotham all through it. Why? Well, that’s simple, isn’t it?

Because you and I were _there._

Well. After a fashion. For half of it you and I were there in spirit. I'm sure I don't need to explain to you why I chose to languish on the sweet loving bosom of Arkham for as long as I did, rather than brave the nasty hullabaloo beyond. Like I said, it wasn't the brand of chaos I endorse. And Arkham needed tending to — I couldn't just leave her alone, now could I.

(Yes, yes, fine. I might have also been afraid. You know I'm not very good with change, all things considered.)

(You really weren't helping by ignoring me back then, my sweet.)

(And yes, I remember _that_ , too. More than anything else, I remember that. And all the other times you ignored me, before and after. That really wasn't very nice of you, darling, but I know why you felt you needed to do it, and I know my place. I wouldn't love you otherwise, now would I.)

(I wouldn't mind you ignoring me again, Batsy. I really wouldn't, so long as I knew you were _HERE_ — )

Do excuse me, sweetheart. You know I get carried away.

So, to recap: No Man's Land was chaos, and it wasn't _good_ , but it was still, very much, undeniably, Gotham.

This, here? This _thing_ you left behind without so much as a goodbye kiss?

I don't know what she is anymore, but, my dear, Gotham she ain't. And day after day, night after night, I see her slipping further into this — this — this ??? she's turning into, now that you're gone.

I don’t like it, darling. I don’t like it one bit.

So come back already, would you? The ??? is infuriating, and she needs you to put her to rights.

(I need you to put me to rights.)

(But then you already knew that.)

*

So it's to be the silent treatment, is it? That how you gonna be, tough guy?

Well, fine. I can do that, too. I can just sit here, and stare ahead, with that awful ??? behind me, and sulk my little heart out, and we'll see who cracks first. Let the better sulker win.

It's cold out here, though. I might get hypothermia. Nasty thing, hypothermia. I'm pretty sure you wouldn't want me dying of it on your account. We _had_ a deal, and besides, that wouldn’t be funny.

(Or would it? Thinking about it now, it might be, and in a way I should appreciate it. But I never was much good appreciating the joke when the punchline was on me.)

So, you know. You might want to come back and rescue me.

You always have before.

*

Well, it was worth a shot.

*

Was it something I said?

*

It was something I did, wasn't it. I knew it. I just _knew_ it. You're sulking because of the thing I did for our anniversary. The thing with the stuffed Robin dummies, and the "fake" blood fountains that weren't fake at all? Well, it _was_ a bit much, I'll grant you, but you can't deny that even you didn't see that punchline coming. I got you well and good. And it _was_ stylish, and didn't the city look _gorgeous_ by the end there, with all that lovely vivid color splattered on the streets?

And that's what it's all about! Style. Panache. Pizzaz. And sometimes, gore raining from the sky to the sound of looney tunes.

That's what _we're_ all about, darling, and the city is us.

(Was.)

Well, all right. Fine. Listen up, Pointy, cause I'm not saying that again.

I'm sorry.

Happy now? Yes, I admit it. I MAY have gone a tad overboard. But that's just what I do! That's how it has to be! I need to keep upping the ante, outdoing myself, for me and for you, you know that, and I just

I don't

Well, just tell me that one thing, then, darling. Tell me, how _is_ it that this — THIS — sets you off, but you still kept around when I blasted your _actual_ little bird to teeny tiny bits? Huh? Does that make sense in your book? Because it doesn't in mine, and believe me, when it comes to nonsense, I know what I’m about. In any case, my point is, I've pulled stunts way worse than that, and you never ran from me. You never left, through all of that. All these years. So what, pray tell, _is your problem now?_

Or was that just the thing that broke the bat's back?

(Again. Ha.)

(Sorry.)

If it is, darling, then... I'm sorry about that, too.

That doesn't mean I regret it, mind you. I'm not sure I'd know how even if I wanted to, and I don't. You know what would happen if I started, and for all your grandstanding, you wouldn't want it, either. You’re no better at change than I am when push comes to stab. 

But if that's what drove you away, then yes, I am sorry. You know I don't always

You know how sometimes I’m

Well.

You know how I get. 

You know _me_. 

It's why you stuck around as long as you did, isn’t it? Through thick and thin and bloody, through funny and unfunny, you were always. 

Always. 

There. 

(Even when I thought you weren’t.)

So, darling... why this?

Why now?

Don't leave me hanging now, Bats. Tell me. I won't know what I did wrong unless you tell me.

*

Unless it wasn't something I did. But I have to believe it was, you see? I have to assume it’s my fault. 

Otherwise that means that it wasn't me at all, and that something else — someone else — hurt you enough to drive you away from me.

And I know you're not that fickle.

Are you?

*

I _said_ I was _sorry_.

*

Really now, darling, this is getting ridiculous.

What else do you want me to do? Stand on my head? Rescue puppies and kittens? Throw myself into a fire to carry out a mewling babe in my arms?

Well, I'll do that. I can. I _have_. I’ve done all that, and so much more. I’ve built towers of corpses on the streets to draw you out, I’ve painted the gutters bloody red, I’ve clipped little birdie wings left and right and kept the feathers to prove it. I even cleaned up the mess you’ve left behind, and you know I’m no janitor. 

But I’ve done it. I’ve hunted down my old playmates, as many of them as I could, and I put away their toys and tucked them into bed, and I’ve kept them quiet, and I even felt a twinge of weltschmerz and nostalgia at that but I still persisted, all for you.

And yet you’re _still not here_.

You know, sometimes I’m really starting to think that

I wonder if

But it hardly matters anymore. I’ve done all I could think to do. It didn’t work. 

What else _can_ I do, darling? What else will it take? 

Because I’ll do it. Everything you say, and more. 

Just say _something_.

*

Are you dead?

Sometimes I think you must be. If you weren't, you'd have come back a long time ago. When I finally punched Gordon’s ticket, for example, and certainly when your little flock gave their final swan song.

(Robin song. Doesn’t have the same ring to it, though, does it? Neither did they, in the end, lemme tell ya. Turns out Robins don’t so much sing as mewl and whimper and curse and

Anyway, you surely would have come back then.) 

So, _are_ you dead? If you are, I'd appreciate if you'd just tell me. It's the polite thing to do. If you're dead, then I can go ahead and make my arrangements.

Yes, those arrangements. Our deal, remember? Now, don't you look at me like that. You know how it goes. Once again, it’s a matter of math.

No, not our previous equation. The other one. I'm quite sure I told you about it before. That one time with the sniper? When I jumped in front of the gun for you, and later you asked me why I did it?

I think you need a refresher on that, my love. Hang on. Let me grab my chalk.

So.

The basic assumption is that there’s two of us, right, and it’s better, universally speaking, to have more of a thing than less of a thing. 

(Personally in this case I’d dispute that, but most of the world seems to agree on this much, so let’s in this one case go with the flow, shall we? Objectively speaking, almost 8 billion people can hardly be wrong.)

So, two. One of me and one of you. And here’s where it gets tricky. 

Because if we subtract one of me, there’ll be one of you still standing. 

Now, now, shhh. It’s okay. I know you’d hurt, and suffer, and grieve so beautifully. And you’d do it all quietly because you can’t stand the thought of anyone suspecting (they’ll suspect anyway) or worse, knowing (they already do). But you’d _keep going_. I know you, Batsy — you hardly know how to stop. Yes, yes, you may eventually reach a point when you’re old and stooped and grey and the loneliness gets too much, and you may retire to go shut yourself away to brood the rest of the emptiness away, but the point is you’d still be there, and you’d persevere, and Gotham would still be there with you (because a bat = Gotham, as we’ve previously established). You’re not one to waste a life, not even your own. Not while you still have a purpose. And as long as Gotham stands, you’ll have one, and you’ll feel like you can’t afford the luxury of sleep while there’s still work to do.

Even with me gone. And that's okay. That's just who you are, darling, and I don't begrudge you that.

(Quite the opposite.)

But, my love, if we subtract one of you, categorically, definitely and unquestionably?

Then the story is _over_. Kaput, finished, dusted and done, wham, bam, thank-you-ma'am. And not just for me.

Because I need a purpose too, and for me? 

It’s you. 

Again, it’s quite simple. If you’re dead, then my purpose is dead with you. Not just my purpose, either, but — everything. All that I am. My whole story. You created me, you shaped me, you molded me against yourself to challenge and reflect and complete you. You defined me into the villain par excellence custom tailored to your hero, in a story that's yours more than it is mine. Without you, there’s nothing left that’d be worth keeping, or staying around for. Without you, there _is_ no story.

So I’d follow you, darling, and I’d take the city with me. There's no more point to it carrying on without you than there is to me. It'd be curtain time, the end of everything, and I’d be more than happy to pull the cord.

(It’s all I can think about, lately.)

So, again: math.

You - me = you and Gotham are still around. 

Me - you = boom.

I don’t think you’d want that, do you, darling? Maybe that’s why you’re keeping me in the dark. Maybe you _are_ dead, but you made sure to die stealthily, and leave just enough doubt in me to stave off the boom for as long as possible. Because you’re still clinging to that soft squishy place in your heart that whispers the fake shadow puppets are worth anything, and that making them — and me — go boom would somehow be a bad thing, rather than the mercy killing it is.

Or maybe it’s some sort of a misguided effort to save my life, too, as though it’s worth anything without you to center it around. 

Well, darling, if that’s true, then, quite frankly, fuck you. It’s the cruelest thing you could possibly do, and you _know_ it. 

Because the thing is, I need to _know_ that you’re dead. I need to know for absolute, no doubt allowed, 100% sure. I thought I didn’t, and I actually started my preparations, but I couldn’t go through with it when I started to think, well, what if you’re alive after all? And what if you come back? Sure, it’d be a good punchline _and_ a well-deserved lesson if you came home to find everything gone. It would serve you right, and thinking about it, my finger starts itching all over to just go ahead and pull the trigger regardless.

But. 

But. 

But I’m not _sure_ , and you might still.

You might still come back, and love me, and I can’t

I don’t

It’s all I have left. 

So just, give me a sign, why don’t you. One little sign. So I’ll know, one way or another, and I’ll know what to do. Do I keep sitting on this pier night after night, looking out over the river, waiting for you as I let the city behind me fall even deeper into ???

(and I will, Batsy. I’ll wait for as long as it takes if I just know there’s something to wait for)

Or do I pull the plug on this whole sorry business and we start over, some other bat-time, some other bat-channel?

Please, baby. 

Don’t leave me hanging. 

And do the math.

*

I got a visit from Kitty Kat today. She says hi.

Surprised? Well, you shouldn’t be. She misses you too, you know, and while I’d hate you if you came back for her and not for me, you’d still come back, so I’m not above dangling that guilt carrot in front of you if it’ll help. 

She’s fine, by the way. But then you knew she would be. She’s proud, and more importantly, she knows how to move on. I can't decide if that makes her weak, or strong, or a traitor. I guess all apply, depending on where you're standing.

(I used to think I was proud, too. Not proud enough, apparently.)

Anyway, she tried to recruit me, if you can believe it. She’s organizing some sort of task force to strike back against the people taking over the ???. Or some such tittle-tattle — to be quite honest, I wasn’t really paying attention, and to be even honest-er, I don’t think she was actually trying. 

I think mostly she was looking for someone to talk to. Someone who still remembers, and who understands. Even if that someone is me.

(The Flower Child is spores, by the way. Gone to ground in the most literal way possible, or so Kitty tells me. And Harley’s back in Arkham now, on the wrong side of the bars, back to her old doctor pretenses.

Poor girl. I wonder if she’s sensed that Arkham is all wrong too, and going further into ??? every day.)

(I thought about going back there, actually. Tried to turn myself in after the first time I started to suspect you may not be coming back. I thought it would help me rest and recharge, and give me some sort of comfort, and a refuge from all the other wrongness around me. 

I escaped a week later. _She_ felt all wrong, too, and not at all like the place that was my home and lair for so long. She’s no longer mine, Batsy, and neither is the city. 

Now isn’t that enough to make a clown cry?)

The thing is, we sat together for a while here on my little bench, and even though she hates me, she had enough respect in her not to question what I’m doing. Maybe she was relieved, cause if I’m sitting out here on the pier waiting for you, I’m no longer her problem. One less chess piece to worry about, so to speak.

That alone should’ve been enough to get me out there. Back in the day, I’d let sheer spite torpedo me right into the thick of the action, and I’d mess it up for everyone, her included, and laugh while I did.

But now, the most I could rustle up is some nodding, and old songs, and jokes about bats and cats and clowns that she didn’t really care for. 

I think she thinks I’m pathetic. 

I’m not sure I disagree. 

Worse-worse, it really doesn’t bother me as much as it would have even a few months ago. Now, what does that mean?

I’m getting old. 

Or maybe I’m already old, and it’s taken me this long to notice. 

There’s a joke in there somewhere, I’m sure of it. It’s just taking me a moment to find it. 

Thing is, I never thought I’d live long enough for such realizations, Batsy. You probably didn’t either. And we weren’t supposed to, were we? We were both supposed to go out young, and together, in a blaze of glory — not peter out like this, little by little, to a sad pathetic nothing, creaking sacks of aching bones and groaning joints and stiff muscles that take too long to move. 

I’m blaming you for that, baby. 

Still waiting for that sign. 

*

I don’t think the ??? remembers you anymore.

Oh, some do. There’s Kitty, and Harley, and whatever’s left of Pam. There’s some old dregs from Arkham still floating around somewhere, and I’m sure they’ll bubble up to the surface before long. And I think there’s one last bird boy skulking around. 

(Sloppy of me, I know, but since the others haven’t brought you back, I can’t be bothered anymore. Besides, I'm pretty sure it's the first one I whacked, you know, the one who came back? And repeating _that_ old number would be tacky even for me.)

Plus, I’m pretty sure lots of the shadow puppets remember you in that boring mundane way, like, oh, Jimmy, remember that Batman fellow, the urban legend the newspapers used to write about, oh, yeah, that weird guy, wonder what happened to him. They may even remember the light from your signal shining down on their ungrateful little heads.

But they don’t remember _you_ , nor what the light meant, just as they’re forgetting me.

Do I sound maudlin? Well, I suppose I do. Like I told you before, I’m old now, so maudlin’s allowed.

I gave a child a balloon animal today, and it didn’t explode, and she didn’t escape screaming. Instead she gave me a quarter. And skipped away. 

I’m sure I felt something at that. I must have.

I just don’t remember what it was. 

*

Do _you_ regret anything?

I’m sure you do. Unlike me, you _breathe_ regret. Not being quick enough. Big enough, or strong enough. Making the wrong choices, or the right choices at the wrong time. Not saving enough of the right people.

Saving too many of the wrong ones. 

I wonder which category I fit into.

*

Do you miss me at all, wherever you are? Do you think about me at least a little bit?

I like to think that you do. I _have_ to believe that, and I do, most of the time. 

Sometimes, though.

Sometimes. I wonder. 

The nights are cold out here, Batsy. I could really use your cape right now. 

And, you know. 

You.

*

A girl came over today, dressed like a ghost of you. 

Not really, of course. For one thing, she was a girl, and she didn’t look like you at all. 

But she had a costume on — I haven’t seen one like that around in ages. 

She had a cape, too, and armor, and her cowl had two pointy ears. 

She called you my boyfriend, darling. Ha. I’d have loved to see your face when you heard _that._

I used to think that word too, you know, when we were younger. As a joke, except when it wasn’t. 

I don’t think it fits anymore. And not just because you left. 

There’s one alternative I can think of, though. Don’t worry — I won’t say it out loud. I know commitment spooks you like nothing else. 

But I can whisper it to the wind, and I can hope it reaches you, all the same. 

*

I woke up with a funny feeling in my bones, darling, and you know what? 

I rather think I might die today. 

Some men came over to the pier just now. They took me to a van. I can’t see where we’re going, and to be honest, I don’t much care. But they were rather hostile, and I’m not in the shape I used to be, and I can’t see you swooping in at the last moment this time.

Unless you do, for old time's sake. Wouldn’t that be a lark. 

In any case, darling, whether the merciful curtain falls on me tonight or not, I just want to say. 

Even though you left me. Even though you took everything with you, even though you might be dead, and even though you never did send me that sign. Even though you hurt me, and thought little of it, and even though you let my heart break for you over and over and over. Even though I might never see you again, and in all likelihood I won’t know if you ever do return, which might just be the bitterest joke of them all. 

Thank you, darling. For everything. All in all, it’s been a blast, and I’ll

I’ll wait for you, I suppose. Wherever I go, and wherever you might be. 

However long it takes.


End file.
